This is my first stab at a story in these deep, dark and dangerous waters. Please be gentle. This is intended to be a ten part story. Constructive feedback is always greatly appreciated.
My name is Connor MacCailin and I hate the color blue.
My vendetta is not against every shade, understand. My hatred is focused upon one particular pastel atrocity that haunts me like a fucking family curse. I am completely unable to escape this color. It comprises roughly half my wardrobe (the half I don't wear), almost all of my bedding, and even my wallpaper. I have three pairs of shoes in this color that I certainly didn't buy for myself. The only reason that my first car wasn't this color was because my father proved too much of a cheap Scot to spring for this thankfully custom color. The hated hue has a name – baby blue.
The origin of my vendetta is perhaps obvious. I am a fraternal twin, roughly thirty seconds older than my little sister, Parisa. The defining aspect of both our lives is that we are twins. I was born June 7th, so my astrological sign is Gemini – the twins. My sister and I are the only twins in, as far as anyone can tell, the entire expansive history of the clan MacCailin. And if that were not enough, though we are fraternal, there are identical twins who look less similar than us.
If you saw Parissa alone, the first word that would enter your mind is pixie. She's a short slight pretty lass with bright green eyes and long red hair so intensely flame orange most assume she dyes it. She has pale skin but few freckles. Oregon, our life long home, provides little of the sun she needs to acquire them in any great abundance.
Myself, I have the same hair color, eyes, complexion and build as my sister. I am few inches taller and broader than Parisa and my hair is cropped a bit shorter, but otherwise we are a perfect matched set. In fact, when we were very young, we were almost impossible to tell apart. Now that she's filled out, the differences are more obvious. And though I wish I could grow even the smallest hint of a moustache or a goatee, the truth is that I have one of those Scotch-Irish almost elfin faces.
But why is this color-born affliction so persistent? Can I not just tell my loving family "I hate baby blue"? Ah, and there's the rub. We come from a large catholic family and for dozens of uncles, aunts, cousins and even more distant relations we are simply "the Twins". On our shared birthday, we receive almost certainly the same present, one pink for Pasia and one, predictably, baby blue for me. This has snowballed over the years. It infected Christmas, where ninety plus percent of our presents do not bear our individual names, but instead simply say "for the Twins".
My father began the curse. He customized two nurseries for us while mom was expecting. He painted one pink, one baby blue and everyone, I'm told, loved and lauded his efforts. The nurseries later became our bedrooms and even after the cribs were long gone, the color scheme remained. By the time I was six, I was sleeping in baby blue pajamas beneath baby blue sheets while looking up at a baby blue ceiling. My fate was sealed.
I get that this is a first world problem. People are starving to death in Africa right now, trapped in shit-colored hells who would gladly trade all they had for my baby-blue American middle-class life. They dream of any shoes at all, let alone blue sneakers. But at least when they die, they are not certain that they are going to be buried in a baby blue coffin. I fear this is my fate. And Parisa, I know, dreads that she'll be right beside me in a matching pink casket.
I have tried for the entirety of the latter half of my life to turn this baby blue boat around. I have mentioned to anyone who cared to listen that I am not fond of baby blue. Anyone who breaks the mold and buys me something in any other color, I thank them profusely and publically. I wear it or play with it as conspicuously as I am able. I make a point at Thanksgiving of trotting it out for all the relations to see. Oh, how I love you not-blue thing!
But today it is Saturday, June seventh and I am eighteen years old. It is my birthday and as I sit beside my sister and we stare out across a sea of pink and baby blue wrapping paper, listening to a slightly off-key cacophony of "Happy Birthday", it is all too clear. I am sitting in front of a cake that is half baby blue and half pink, each aside adorned with a cluster of matching lit similarly colored candles.
And I realize then that I am defeated.
***
After the party, the crowd slowly dwindled away. By ten p.m., our suburban house in the hills outside of Portland, Oregon is again occupied only by immediate family. Mom and dad are quick to bed, exhausted after all the party preparations and entertaining. Since it is a weekend and my birthday, as a special treat I have no particular time I have to be in bed. Parisa is equally awake. We are together in the first floor living room of our three story house, looking through our pile of loot and contemplating what to do with it all. Truth told, despite my lengthy bitching about color, we mostly scored. This wasn't just a birthday after all, there were also graduation gifts here and lots of them.
"These matching blue and pink hoodies also have a gift receipt," said Parisa. "Add 'em to the return pile."
I smiled I said, tossing them on the heap. "Excellent. That's thirteen items we can cash in at the mall plus the gift cards. It looks like our shopping spree tomorrow is a go."
"So, what are you going to get with your share of the loot?" asked my sister.
"Oh, I was thinking about saving it all up and getting a baby blue facial tattoo. I was thinking 'Hail Satan' right on the forehead. Something that'll make the folks proud."
"Great idea! I could get a matching pink one!" she said with a giggle.
"You know, seriously, this is probably the last one of these we're ever going to have. After eighteen we're officially not kids anymore. It's like an unspoken rule in the clan."
"Yeah, it'll probably just be dinner with the folks," said Parisa with a shrug. "So, do you feel any different, Mr. Grownup?"
"Different? I guess not. I mean, I still kind of feel like a kid."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean I love mom and dad, but you got to admit they're hyper-protective. I've never had a job or been out on my own or even had a girl friend."
"What about Holly?" asked my sister.
"We were friends, sis. We went out a couple of times before her parents moved but ... we never really did anything. We held hands mostly. And only kissed ... really kissed once. I'm eighteen and I still have a bed time for Christ sakes. Yeah, I feel like I'm still treated like a child."
Parisa suddenly was more serious. "I've got it even worse. You've at least kind of dated. I've never been out at all except with my girlfriends. Nobody wants to date the principal's daughter. I've never been kissed by a boy even once."
"God, what a pair of sad nerds are we?" I said with a sigh.
"Well, at least we've got each other," said Parisa. I had been so distracted by own ennui that my sister had managed to sneak up behind me and tackle-hugged me. I fell rather unceremoniously on my face and she began to try and tickle me. That was her mistake. We may be not far from the same size, but I have one great advantage on my dear sister. She is easily the most ticklish person I've ever encountered. And as she tried to tickle me to little effect, she was wide open for full-scale retaliation.
All too late, she cried out, "Wait! No!" And I had her! She spasmed in full-body laughter and I rolled her off me. After just a few seconds, she was laughing so hard, she could barely breathe. I kept up the tickle onslaught.
"The circle is complete. When first you tickled me, I was but the learner. Now I am the master..."
She barely managed to gasp out between guffaws, "Only a ... master of nerdity."
And at that we both laughed and collapsed in a heap amidst the scattered wrapping paper and birthday cards.
Parisa regained her composure first. "You know what we need to do this summer, brother o' mine?"
"Pack up and get ready to go to college in about three months?"
"Yeah, yeah, other than that."
I shrugged. "I give. What do we need to do this summer?"
"We need to catch up. We need to do all the irresponsible things most normal kids do in high school, but we didn't thanks to both our over-protective parents and, let's face it, our own personal nerdiness and academic competitiveness."
"Like ... what are we talking about here?"
"Like, we should go to a party and get drunk. We should smoke some weed. We should stay out late and go on a real date with someone."
"All at once? That's going to be a hell of a date."
"No, not all at once, you goofball. I mean over the course of the summer."
"Go out on a date with whom?"
"I don't know...we need to find someone to date," And suddenly Parisa was no longer joking. "Look, we're both eighteen years old. I am the Salutatorian of our class, and you because you are a cheating cheater who cheats, you are the Valedictorian. And when we get to college, let's face it...I know us. We are going to totally throw ourselves into our studies and once more be lifeless nerds. This is our summer. We can go a little wild."
"Mom and dad are going to totally freak," I said.
"Yeah, well, they can fucking bill me," said Parisa. Her rather pointed use of a cuss word stunned me for a moment. Had I ever heard my sister swear before that moment? Parisa, however, was not done.
"We did what they wanted. We graduated from a magnet high school with honors at the top of our class. I engaged in a diversity of electives that looked good on my college resumé. We got accepted with free-ride academic scholarships to Oregon U. I brush my teeth twice a day, jog every morning and eat my damn broccoli. I am way ... way overdue for some fun. We both are."
I sat and contemplated my sister's words. I paused and let her suggestion rattle around in my head for a few seconds. My fierce and fearless little sister may relish the idea of these adventures, but they terrified me. Still, what if she tried them without me? That would be even worse. "Fine. I'm in on two conditions."
"Name 'em."
"We each have veto power over all these 'wild' activities. We do 'em together or we don't do 'em."
"Agreed. Second?"
"We should make an itemized list of exactly what we're trying to accomplish. You know ... action items."
She paused. "God, you are a nerd..."
"I'm being called a nerd by a girl who still wears batgirl underroos?" This rebuff earned my sister sticking her tongue out at me. But she denied nothing. "And anyway, tell me making a list is not a great idea?"
"Okay, it's a great idea, even if it is just a minor refinement of my highly innovative original suggestion," she said with a huff.
"Refinement... yes, that's what separates a Valedictorian from a Salutatorian," I said with a smirk.
And that earned me my second tackle of the night. This attack was much less like a hug.
***
Monday afternoon, June ninth. Mom and dad were at work, leaving us with the run of the house. We had been given a small list of chores all of which were already done. Now Parisa and I had settled down to get about the serious business of making the list.
"Okay, that's how many?" I asked.
"Nine," she said looking over the list written on a small yellow notepad.
